


It's a Start

by digitalduckie, hakbot



Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14038587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitalduckie/pseuds/digitalduckie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakbot/pseuds/hakbot
Summary: Before Nuka World, Royce had a business in the Capital.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hakbot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakbot/gifts).



> Dean Cooper belongs to @hakbot and is written and used with permission.

Royce considered himself a hard worker. He only took because he had earned. And that was what made him different from a lowly raider. No, he was a special breed and he brought a level of class and sophistication to the table that other gangs would never dream of. As such, he wanted to be present when the source of hemorrhaged chems was found and brought to trial.

The men had hauled in a young raider, thin and worn out with shaggy blond hair. He was a mess and had the situation not already been explained, Royce would have easily deduced what had occurred.

"What's his name?"

"Dean Cooper, Sir."

Royce nodded, the name turning over in his head as he looked the culprit up and down. He wasn't that much younger than Royce himself, but enough so. Enough so to remind him of his time in his first raider gangs and the fool he had been. Never again.

"So, Dean," The way the name rolled off his tongue could beguile many who weren't already familiar with his ways. "Tell me, who recruited you?" He steepled his fingers and smiled patiently for the answer.

Dean looked from the men who held him by either arm and about the others crowded about the room. He appeared lost and uncertain he was being spoken to let alone given permission to speak.

"Go ahead." Of course Royce already knew full well, had records of which of his officers had signed him on. Perhaps before the war, keeping such a fastidious listing of your members would only serve to condemn, but with no government or law to abide by, it was strictly in his best interest to keep tabs on everything and everyone in his operation.

With a nod, Dean correctly fingered the man in question. A stocky man named Bilge who was missing at least a few teeth and had been assigned as an officer under the condition that he at least comb his hair regularly in addition to his duties. A man who was very shortly on the ground with a bullet wound in the middle of his chest and presently a corpse that was being hauled away.

"Thank you, Dean. I'm sure you can understand how truly disappointed I am to have to have done that." Royce examined his pistol, ensuring it had fired correctly and wouldn't jam upon the next use before reholstering it. "But you see, I can't have filth like Bilge making poor hiring decisions, right? How am I supposed to make caps like that?"

Silence from Dean and the other men. Royce raised his eyebrows.

"I asked how am I supposed to make caps if someone helps themselves to my chems and doesn't pay for them?"

"You can't."

"That's right. I can't." Royce almost chuckled he was so amused to hear the response. "Please tell me that Bilge at least explained what your job was."

"To sell chems."

"Right again! Yes! You find some poor sad sap who has some caps and wants some chems and wow they're in luck because you have chems and want some caps! It's a fair trade, everyone is happy. We can all live comfortably and eat a nice dinner. The works!" He clinched his fists in satisfaction but the elation quickly faded from his face.

"Now, unfortunately, somewhere along the lines you misstepped." Royce emphasized the final word with a pointed hand gesture, as if placing a firm full stop at the end. Dean nodded.

"And I," he held a hand to his chest, "am out a lot of money because of a mistake Bilge made that went two-fold."

There was a pause in the discussion as one of the men who had helped remove the corpse returned and handed Royce a wallet and small bag of belongings. A knife, a pipe pistol, some cigarettes and a flask; The only items remotely of value. In the wallet were fifty caps. Paltry, really. It made Royce tisk.

"Looks like your boss can't hardly make a dent in the debt. So, Dean, what do you have?"

"Nothing." Clearly, as he was shirtless to boot.

"Nothing? At all? Of any worth?"

Dean shook his head.

"Well shit, Dean. At least tell me your life is worth something. You have to value yourself, right?"

He hesitated a moment before finally nodding in agreement.

"So, what do you have?"

"My life."

"Great! I don't give a flying shit. Because your life is not caps. That's why I haven't killed you, you know. Because your body isn't going to just explode into a shower of caps. See at least Bilge had some money and shit. Even a crap weapon I can at least reissue if we don't just sell it. So, again, what else do you have?"

For a moment, Dean struggled against one of the men restraining him before he was waved off by Royce. He dug into his pocket and came out with a single tarnished set of brass knuckles. A classic.

"Adorable." Royce stepped away, turning his back as he lit a cigarette and considered his options. Killing Dean wouldn't settle the debt. And he couldn't trust Dean to attempt to sell chems without abusing them again. The only option was unpaid labor. Settled, he turned back.

"Tell me, Dean, are you a gambling sort?"


	2. Chapter 2

Ringaround was of a lowbrow caliber that Royce would have preferred to avoid. He saw the potential in the fight club, however. Both as a tool and a future venture should the current proprietors ever come around. More often than not, when it came to gambling, he would have kept his caps to himself and moved along. But this particular trip had a purpose.

The floor was covered in grime that could be felt beneath your feet but was so dimly lit that it was invisible save for a few patches of glistening blood, spilled booze, or maybe even urine. Anyone caught defecating under his ownership would pay for damages but he grimaced and pushed the thought out of his mind as he and Dean came to join the end of a line. A barker called out, beckoning to all from the head.

"Bets and entries! Bets and entries!" There was no need for any flair as the patrons were more than flocking to the table to throw away their caps on the next round of fights. Still, it was mildly disheartening to Royce; The more excited your audience, the easier it was to convince them to hand over their caps. Convince them by any means necessary that your product was worth having more than anything else.

"Take a look at the match up on the board." Royce pointed out a scratched and dilapidated chalk board overhead of the line. It would be changed to reflect the new challengers and their opponents plus the odds of the fight. The upcoming match was the house stock favorite, a burly veteran of a fighter, versus some no name hot shot who could possibly have been drunk when he signed up. It was quite common. When Dean had a moment to observe and no doubt take in the information, Royce continued. "Which would you place your bet on?"

It took Dean a moment before he shrugged as they moved up in line.

"Don't just shrug at me, Dean. If you had even one measly cap to bet, who would yo-"

"I can't read." It was blunt and lacking in shame or embarrassment and yet also pride.

"Holy shit of course you can't and it's my fault for assuming that walking talking garbage could. I apologize. Did you know before the war that most everyone could read? It's fascinating how much it was taken for granted. It's a damn privilege now." Royce himself came from a family that had mixed results in the department. His grandfather and his grandfather before him and his grandfather before him and so forth had wanted the family to read the Bible or whatever tattered remains of it they had, an heirloom passed down for almost ten generations. Instead, he had read voraciously from the bits and pieces of non-fiction sections of any libraries he could get into.

"I digress. The big guy on the left is a sure deal. You'll get your caps back by betting on him, but that's about it, right?" He got a nod in response but Royce was almost certain Dean was barely following.

"Trust me, that's it. Some people are happy with that. They're comfortable putting their money into a sure thing. But if you put in ten and get back ten, what profit do you make?" Another look. "Profit, you know, the money over what you spent. If you spend ten and only get back ten, the difference is- shit you can't do math either. I am really sorry your life is such shit. How many scumbags have scammed you? That sucks. It really does."

"Ten less ten is zero."

"Wow! I underestimated you. I'll admit that."

"Anything less itself is zero. Less one is the previous number..."

"And you can count to- whatever, that's for some other day. Point is, you don't want zero. You want at least one. Now betting on the big guy will actually get you at least one, maybe even three caps to a single cap back. At ten caps, you may walk away with thirty and we won't discuss your ability to multiply or not we're going to keep going. You're not making much profit at that rate. At least not as much as you could."

"So bet on the little guy."

"You are observant and quite bright for gutter sludge that can't tell an A from his own ass." Royce put an arm around Dean's shoulders and flashed him a broad toothy smile. They came to the head of the line and the attendant there kept their gaze on the books under their nose.

"Bet or entry?" Their voice was raspy no doubt from a persistent smoking habit.

"Entry. Dean Cooper." Royce declared, pulling Dean even closer. It prompted the attention of the attendant who was ambivalent to the scene before them. Strictly business.

"Previous fighting record?"

"None."

"No wins or no fights?"

"None. His previous fighting record does not exist. If he had no wins I'd have said-"

"Weight and height." They cut Royce off, an equal amount of intolerance for down talking.

Royce took a deep breath and collected himself before patting Dean on the back. "Stand up straight and at least try to look intimidating." As Dean rolled his shoulders back and held his head up higher, he gave him a look over. "5'10", 130. Give or take."

The attendant stared blankly, measuring Dean up for themself before returning to the books. "Man or beast?"

"Man, please."

"Melee only. No guns allowed. Fee will be 30 caps. Corpse disposal is at the entrant's expense. In the event no previous arrangements have been made, the corpse will be-"

"30?! That's outrageous."

"No previous record and he's far below the title weight. No one will bet on him. 30 caps or shove off. You know it's non-negotiable, Royce."

"10 caps and I will bet 100 caps up front."

The deal was considered to the frustration of the line behind them, murmurs and grumbling over a haggler at the bookie. It worked, however, because money talks.

"110 caps, non-refundable. Next!"

Royce pulled Dean away from the table, satisfied and apparently optimistic. "You're going to go out there and earn me those caps back, right Dean?"

"I can fight." Dean nodded, pulling his brass knuckles from his pocket once again.

"Most people don't have that level of confidence." Especially when armed only with their fists and no armor to speak of. "Never let it go." He clapped Dean on the back and left to find himself a good seat for the show.

\---

Royce had been expecting to be out all of his caps. He had expected perhaps Dean would, at best, give everything he had only to end up pulpy and battered in a pile on the floor of the ring. He had expected, as per the rules of the house, for Dean's body to be fed to their bestiary and Royce himself to go home empty handed and cutting his employees' pay to repair the debt. And while Dean did give the fight his entire being, it yielded unexpected results. He came out on top after successfully gouging out his opponent's left eye with an old bone left in the ring and eventually strangling him with his own belt. Considering the size of the other man, the feat was particularly impressive. And ruthless.

Immediately after the victory, Royce hurried down into the ring to collect the battered raider before dragging him beyond the medic station and to the bookie table. There was no sense in waiting in line, not when you were the star of the night, and so Royce shouldered his way past the other patrons.

"I'm collecting my winnings." His proud smile broadcast his hunger loud and clear.

"We're not paying out." He was met with a snort and a huff of smoke from the same attendant who had disrespected him previously.

"Like hell-"

"Look, Royce, we all know you think you're better than everyone else. You think you're smarter and more deserving," they were met with tones of agreement from the line and other keepers listening in, "but you're nothing but a lying, cheating, pompous sack of mirelurk shit who thinks he can shark us with a wet paper bag."

"And what grounds do you have for believing the fight was unfair?" Royce crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

"Hold out your arm, kid." The attendant took a hold of Dean's arm, stretching it out and jabbing at pot marks in the crook of his elbow with the unlit end of their cigarette. "Your fighter was doped. Probably had psycho or maybe even some buff. You're a known chem pusher so don't think we'll buy your crap here."

"Okay." Royce nodded, running a hand down his face. "Okay, that's reasonable. I would come to the same conclusion if I were in your shoes." And he meant it. If there was one thing he was not, it was a liar. Which of course made the accusation sting even more.

"Dean, keep an eye for me, would you? Thanks." Delicately, he plucked Dean's arm from the grasp of the attendant and gave it a light pat before releasing him.

"So, here's the thing-" In a flash, Royce unsheathed his knife, bringing it down on the attendant's hand and pinning it palm down to the table. Reflexively, Dean turned to face the crowd, fists up in challenge and eyes wide as he licked away blood from the corner of his mouth. It kept the others at bay and brought a smirk to Royce's face. He made a note to consider reducing the debt by a couple of caps already. Leaning in to the attendant to force eye contact was a difficult task until their screaming became gasping, choked sobs.

"So- look at me- here's the thing: Don't you ever, EVER fucking touch my fighter again. Alright?" He received a nod.

"Good. Now pay out."

\---

"Dean, if you ever earn anything, don't let anyone tell you that you can't have it. If you put in the work for it, then you have every right to take it."

"Like the fight tonight."

"Like the fight tonight. I played by their rules, for one." Dean nodded in agreement. "And like a cherry on top, I- they should have paid me as a talent scout, ha! I brought them a damn fine show." A lazy smile came across Dean's face for the compliment.

"Shit, we should call you David." This one brought a blank look. "From the Bible? A punk kid that beat the giant, Goliath, with a single rock in his slingshot. It's not as exciting, I'll admit, but it's there. Everyone loved him because shit a whole giant with one rock. No one thought he could do it but he did."

"I like Dean."

"Alright, fine. It's not like birth certificates mean anything anymore and I'm not your father. But another bit of advice: This is your talent. Fighting and killing. That's what you bring to the table so the next time anyone asks you what you've got to give, that's what you tell them."

"I can fight."

"And kill." Royce reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tin container subsequently tossed in Dean's direction. Inside, a pair of mentats the he knew full well weren't the raider's choice but they were his poorest seller. "You earned it."


End file.
